Tuesday, January 14, 2014

Birthing

I really want to set the record
straight about something for sake of any actual or presumed misinterpretation
by my readers.Despite my rants about
douche bags that I have openly associated with males (trust me, there are
plenty of female douche bags out there and I don’t mean to discriminate but
douche bags with vaginas can be someone else’s project), I do
not hate men – quite the contrary.My
propensity for being a douche bag magnet has nothing to do with what I really
think of men in general, the opposite sex which I am utterly smitten by and, for lack of better words, rather addicted
to.

But addiction
is a strange thing – you know logically something may be bad for you, but for
whatever reason (disclaimer:I am
by no means an addiction specialist nor am I claiming to be one) you cannot refuse it if that very thing is
presented in front of you and if it’s not readily available, it’s quite
difficult to not think about it or crave it with the hope that once you do hold
“it” again in your hands, it will recreate the initial bliss that attracted you
to it in the first place.It is that
climatic event that I am hereby dubbing the “addiction moment”.Whether
or not that place is ever reachable again is debatable but it doesn’t stop you
from ultimately seeking it and re-seeking it to bring you back to that very instance and experience.

At this point
you are likely curious about my “addiction moment” which has since led me down
the path to my current plight with douche bags and for which I am now
spearheading the creation of a douche bag anonymous 12-step program…right?Right.And fortunately for you, I
think I know exactly when and what it was because I happen to be incredibly in
touch with myself (and, no, that is
not a result of my lack of a sexual partner in way too many months).In all seriousness here though, it occurred
at a very critical juncture of my life…my very
first interaction with the touch of a human being, which like most women
born in this region of the world during the 1970s, happened to be with a man...

Let me re-create here my “addiction
moment” for you:

It
was the summer of 1975 in Paterson, NJ.Comb
over and all, the man of one million pussies and counting, the infamous Dr. R.
strategically placed each hand on either side of my head and purposefully lured
me from the abyss between my mother’s legs and straight towards him…or more
accurately, his groin.There was nothing obscene or twisted with
this gesture or his intent - he was doing exactly what he was medically trained to
do - pull me out of her and towards him.Still though, keep in mind his positioning
at the moment of my entre to the world…my mother lay on a hospital bed with
legs wide open before him spewing obscenities at everyone and anyone around her;
he stood before her tasked with extracting me from her jaws of captivity and
out towards him which also happened to coincide with his groin area…the “by default”
place I was heading, literally.And, to be clear, I was not resisting…if
anyone knows my mother, she can only be taken in small doses, if that, so after 9 months of being held
inside her, I couldn’t wait to get the fuck out of there and if it meant going
for the groin, well then the groin was the light at the end of the fucking
tunnel and I was going for it with everything my 8 ½ pound being had (it just
so happens that this would eventually metaphorically happen again years
later…but I will leave that story to another time).

Now, although the
“going-for-the-groin” wasn’t exactly my “addiction moment”, it definitely had
some kind of psychological impact on me which years later has and continues to likely
yield a nice contribution to the trust fund of my psychoanalyst’s secret son…but
again, that’s not really the point of the story because the pivotal point is
what actually happened after my
birthing moment.Let’s return back to
the scene:

Upon
my release into the world and before I was able to at the very least have a moment to figure out where the fuck I was or even take my first solo
breathe and hopefully get a whiff of the cigarette-laden air (again, being
attached to my mom for 9 months, I came out desperately needing a cigarette), Dr. R.
ceremoniously grabbed hold of my tiny body in one hand, raised me for display
under the bright lights (in retrospect, likely the beginning of my
exhibitionist tendencies), announced I was in fact a "girl", and in one sweeping gesture proceeded to slap my ass
and make me scream…

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About Indigo Blue

Indigo Blue is single mother, writer and attorney. Her words and commas have been featured in treatises and contracts you likely have never read nor would you want to. When getting a reprieve from juggling motherhood and a full-time career, Indigo Blue can be found online desperately seeking dates with douche bags.